Hot Under Pressure (20 page)

Holding out his curled fist for a bump, Beck said, “We’ll figure it out, man.”

“Sure. As soon as you spill your guts.”

Beck shifted his weight. “This ain’t no therapist’s office.”

Adopting a ridiculous German accent, Winslow stroked his baby butt–smooth chin and said, “Und how do you veel about zat?”

Snorting, Beck palmed the back of his neck. The muscles under his fingers were corded with tension, and no matter how good Win was at lightening up a crappy situation, Beck still hated the very idea of what they were about to do.

And then an idea occurred to him, like a ray of sunshine striking down through the surface of the ocean, breaking through the waves and lighting up the darkness.

“Listen,” he said, lowering his voice. “What if we don’t get into the whole feelings and life story bullshit. What if we just come up with the best dishes we possibly can? And once we have a great menu, we’ll worry about what story to tell with each dish.”

Winslow put his hands on his lean hips, looking doubtful. “That’s not exactly what the challenge is about…”

But Beck wasn’t going to be dissuaded from this course of action. He’d spotted a way through the maze, and he was damn well taking it. “This whole competition is about the food,” he said firmly.

Win nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So that’s what we’ll be doing.” Beck took back his notebook, flipping through the pages of ideas with more purpose. “We’re putting the food first.”

This was going to work, he was sure of it. And it would be better than if they went through his whole life story, because, shit—how would that menu look? A first course of family tragedy, followed up with a troubled adolescence and a side of utter romantic failure, rounded out by an eye-opening course of military service?

Appetizing.

No, this is the best way,
he told himself as he chose a few recipes and concepts to talk over with Winslow.

As they got down to the serious business of planning out the menu, Beck couldn’t resist checking in on the other team. Across the kitchen, Skye and her sous-chef were in deep, serious conversation, the kind that made Skye’s luminous blue eyes fill with the sparkle of unshed tears.

The sight ripped through his chest, and he ducked his head hurriedly, staring blindly down at the bare, polished metal of the table in front of him.

He knew without asking that Skye wasn’t starting with the food—she was starting with her life. She’d draw on her own emotions, fearlessly using them as inspiration for what she created in the kitchen, the same way her bohemian mother painted or sculpted.

Beck wasn’t at all sure he could handle hearing the story of Skye’s life, her fears and sorrows exposed for the judges. It would be hard to bear, but he’d manage it.

What he couldn’t handle at all was the thought of spilling his own past out onto the kitchen floor. Not because of the judges, but because of Skye.

And if that made him a coward, then so be it.

He’d be a coward who kept his secrets.

Chapter 19

From the moment Eva had told the judges what this challenge would be, thoughts of the past had consumed Claire.

The recent past, yes—despite her best efforts, Kane Slater was never far from her thoughts. But the distant past, as well, the events that had formed her into the woman she was today … those ugly memories haunted her, too.

So much so that once the contestants were off and running, working on their life story meals, all Claire could contemplate was finding a quiet corner and a cocktail.

Kane had been laughing with Eva about needing a drink just moments ago. And when he slipped out of the kitchen just ahead of Claire, without conscious volition, she found herself following him.

Once out in the hallway, she slowed her steps to avoid overtaking him. She was viscerally aware of how foolish this was, courting an encounter with him after she’d fought so hard for the clean break between them … but his last words to her, about being safe, kept swirling through her brain along with the memories that tormented her, until all she could do was hope that Kane was on his way to the lobby bar.

They reached a flight of carpeted steps that led up into a marble-floored atrium filled with potted greenery and architectural flower arrangements on inlaid wood tables. Claire focused on the décor, hoping to distract herself from the delectable sight of Kane taking the stairs two at a time, the wide stretch of his legs drawing his dark blue jeans tight across his muscular derrière.

It didn’t work.

Once up the stairs and into the lobby, Claire spied the Boulevard Lounge & Bar sign hanging beside a discreet archway, and quickened her steps. If she hurried, she could be drowning her memories in a digestif within minutes.

Or … she could run straight into Kane’s back.

“Oof!”

“Whoa, there, are you oka—Claire?”

Kane dropped the hands he’d reflexively wrapped around her upper arms, and Claire missed the warmth of them instantly.

Not that she needed to be any warmer, she realized, as a flush swept up her neck and over her hot cheeks.

“I’m fine, thank you. My apologies, I’m afraid I was a bit too eager to reach the bar.”

He huffed out a laugh that didn’t sound as vibrant and full of humor as she was used to. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

There was a short, intensely awkward pause while Claire tried to pick her composure up off the floor. Kane broke it by shrugging and saying, “Well, I guess I’ll let you get to it, then. Do you think room service will send up a bottle of whiskey, if I ask nicely?”

He gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and all of a sudden, Claire couldn’t bear it.

A distance of no more than ten centimeters separated them, but it felt like ten kilometers as she raised one trembling hand to rest just above his elbow.

That simple, glancing touch was enough to stop Kane in the act of turning and walking away. He stood transfixed under her fingertips, the hard muscle of his bicep straining at the soft sleeve of his black-and-white plaid shirt.

It took a ridiculous amount of courage for Claire to say, “At this time of day, the room service staff will think you’re an alcoholic. Do you want that story making the rounds of the gossip magazines? I think not. Come with me to the hotel bar instead; there is safety in numbers.”

Somewhere along the way, she’d lost the ability to read Kane’s expressions. Or maybe it was that he’d lost the beautiful openness that was so much a part of what had attracted her in the first place. The thought that she was to blame for the wary, closed look in his blue eyes tore through her like a lance, even as he nodded and stepped back to allow her to precede him into the bar.

The lounge had only recently opened; the incongruously cheery light cast by the peach silk lampshades fell on clean round tables and unoccupied chaises and upholstered chairs.

The bar,
merci à Dieu
, was not deserted. A lithe young sprite of a bartender gave a mischievous grin as Claire made a beeline for the two empty stools at the end of the polished brass bar railing, as if only the Pegasus hotel chain’s impeccable training kept him from winking at them.

Ignoring the leather-bound menus placed in front of them, Kane leaned his elbows on the bar and twisted his head to regard her seriously.

Soft light glinted gold in his hair and shaded his handsome, boyish face in a way that made him look older, jaded, cynical—all the things Claire felt in herself but hadn’t ever associated with Kane.

“Now that you’ve got me here, what are you going to do with me?”

Would this hideous flush never die down? Claire felt as if she’d been walking the beach in Nice for hours with no hat. “I’m going to buy you a drink.”

Claire buried her face in the menu, scanning for cocktails before she remembered where they were.

In San Francisco, cocktails weren’t king—wine was.

While the flirtatious little bartender would no doubt be able to shake up a fine martini, Claire’s years as a food writer had taught her that the best strategy was usually to tailor her order to the specialty of the house. Whatever the establishment was known for was often what they did the best, and would be the most enjoyable to try.

In this case, however, a simple glass of wine wasn’t going to be sufficient.

Overcome by a sudden swelling of nostalgia for Paris, Claire said, “I’ll have a cognac, please.”

There. Cognac was distilled wine. That would have to be close enough.

“The same.” Kane shoved the menu back across the bar without taking his eyes off Claire.

Pulling her shoulders back, Claire lifted her chin and focused on the swift, economical movements of the bartender as he unscrewed the top from a squat, round bottle with one hand while stretching up on his toes to snag two short-stemmed snifters with the other.

“I wasn’t angling for an invitation before. I told you I was backing off, and I have.”

The bitterness in his melodic voice crackled down Claire’s spine like lightning, dangerous and shocking and wrong. “Yes, you have,” she said quietly. “You did exactly what I asked.”

He made a frustrated noise that seemed to come from deep in his chest. Swiveling on the bar stool, Kane faced her more fully. The twist of his torso tugged at the soft, plaid button-down he wore, outlining his hard chest and gaping open at the collar to reveal that warm, lickable dip where his neck met his shoulder.

“So why do you still look as miserable as I feel?”

For a moment, she struggled to focus on what he was saying—until his words penetrated the dense fog of lust that had briefly overwhelmed her.

Claire was saved from having to respond by the bartender, whose tip was increasing by the moment. He slid two small glasses across the mirror-smooth mahogany of the bar, the gently rounded globes filled with dark amber liquid. Claire’s rigorously educated nose detected the faint scent of clove and nutmeg wafting from the spirit.

She lifted the glass to the level of her chin, taking a couple of shallow breaths, and let the caramel notes flow over the back of her tongue. The first sip burned through her mouth, but as the shock of the alcohol tapered off, she tasted the flowery spice she’d smelled before.

It was very good cognac, aged fifteen years or so, and probably from the Borderies. She nodded her approval to the bartender, who did wink, finally, the cheeky thing, before moving discreetly to wipe down the other end of the bar.

Claire turned her attention back to Kane in time to see him tip back his head and down a third of his glass in one swallow.

“God, that’s good,” he gasped, tongue coming out to catch a drop at the corner of his lips, and everything in Claire’s body tightened and heated with arousal.

He was just so alive. So vibrant and voracious, hungry for all the pleasures and excitement the world had to offer.

And that had always been the problem.

Everything with Kane was so
much.
She felt too much, wanted too much, cared too much … so she’d pushed him away.

She’d ruined everything they had between them, probably for good. But he deserved to know why she’d done it. She owed him the chance to understand, even if he couldn’t forgive.

But before she could gather her courage enough to speak, he’d set his glass back down on the bar. “I know I said I’d back off and let this go, but I can’t move on until I say this one last thing to you.”

Resisting the impulse to stop him from speaking if it would delay this awful moving-on business, Claire swallowed another sip of cognac and braced herself. “Go ahead.”

Kane’s face was set in lines of misery. “I hate that I made you think, for even a second, that you—this—was all just a game to me. Because I’d never do that. Even if I weren’t in…” He paused, his gaze flickering to the side, and Claire sucked in a breath.

“Even with someone I barely knew,” he continued, subdued, “I wouldn’t treat any woman that way. For one thing, it’s rude and disrespectful, and the total opposite of everything I try to be about, with my music and my life.”

Guilt that she’d ever doubted him—that she’d made him doubt himself—choked Claire. She put a hand on his forearm and found it rigid, corded with misery. “I know,” she said again, feeling helpless and hating it.

“Do you? Because it seems like I’ve done a shitty-ass job of showing you who I am.”

“That’s not true,” Claire argued. “And as far as your music goes, well … As soon as Eva told me you’d be one of the RSC judges…” She paused, reluctant to reveal this for some reason.

“What?”

“I may have ordered all three of your albums. As reconnaissance, you understand.”

A hint of the usual sparkle lit his blue eyes. “Sure, of course.”

Silence stretched between them for the space of several heartbeats before Kane blurted, “So what did you think?”

The moment the question left his lips, he slapped a hand over his reddening face and made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Gah! I’m such a dweeb. I can’t believe I asked you that, like some kid auditioning for a part he knows he’s not going to get.”

Claire laughed, although the reference to himself as a kid clutched at her insides. “Suffice it to say, were it up to me, you’d get the part.”

Peering through a crack between his fingers, Kane said, “Really?”

“Yes. I was … surprised by what I heard.”

A knowing look turned his handsome face sly and mischievous. “Ah, I see. You’re one of those who assumed that since the good Lord blessed me with this incredibly gorgeous face and a killer six-pack, that’s all I needed to make me rich and famous. I couldn’t possibly have or need any musical skill.”

“I assure you, when I first purchased your CDs, I had no knowledge of your … six-pack. I was more surprised at the broad range of your musical influences … a song very lush and lyrical would be followed by something that reminded me of Edith Piaf—soulful and lazy, but with a playful edge.”

She shook her head in remembered bemusement, and Kane grinned. “I know which record you’re talking about now. Couldn’t get much of a handle on me from that one, could you?”